It’ll scare you a little, how normal you can look. How cheerful you can sound. How you can get text upon text of prom dress pictures and dating rants and respond to every one. How you can take call after call from Flora Summer in the middle of the night, sobbing that she needed to hear your voice. You’ll keep going. You’ll twist, you’ll dance, you’ll sidestep the panic as it comes, even when all you want to do is sleep.
But there’ll be time for sleep later. You need to apply to colleges. You need to eat something. You need to stop saying you like you’re talking to some other girl.
And if you feel like you’re still spinning on that dark, wet road, well then, what’s changed? A body in motion, et cetera.
Twenty-Five
THE THIRD DAY
IT’S POSSIBLE THAT hanging up on Maurice wasn’t my best idea. If I left a message, I could have played it like nothing was wrong. He knows something’s wrong now.
Rose? Did you call earlier?
The text stares me down much like Maurice himself would do if we were face-to-face. I start a reply. Mom always says not to text and walk, but it’s not like there’s anyone around to bump into. The streets are emptier today. The signs of life come from the houses: blurs of movement and suitcases in the open garages. Sometimes I catch, out of the corner of my eye, faces at the windows. But whenever I look, the curtains snap shut.
Yeah sorry, I say. I mean to expand on that, but nothing comes to me.
Is everything okay? he asks.
It should be easier to lie when he can’t see my face. And yet I type, I don’t think so.
There’s a long pause before he types again. I have appointments until five, he says. But I can call then. Would that help?
I laugh quietly. It depends, Maurice. I don’t know what I’ll be doing at five. This disaster I started doesn’t have a timeline I can follow.
But I write back, Yes please.
The school stands, waiting, just a few feet ahead.
Felix and Alex are collapsed on a couple chairs in the lobby when I open up the double doors. Neither of them lighten up a whole lot at my arrival. I have to imagine I’m making a similar face.
“Get ready for a lot of unhappy people,” Felix says, by way of greeting.
“We’re taking a break,” Alex says. “But you can go on through.”
I nod and do just that. As I leave them behind, I catch Alex slide his head onto Felix’s shoulder.
I pass through the entryway, cast in that murky, unnatural sunlight, and turn deeper into the building. I don’t need to ask where I’m going. There are plenty of voices for me to follow, for one. But the hallways ahead are shimmering, just a little. Like something is shifting under the surface.
I think the Flood is agitated. And it doesn’t take me long to see why.
“. . . get to my age, you know more dead folks than live ones.” An elderly woman sits in the classroom to my right, her back straight and her smile taut. I pause long enough to see Loreen opposite her. “My parents. My best friend. My baby brother. Would you like me to start somewhere, Loreen, or shall I go in order?”
I know that voice. I’ve seen this woman before: she threw a dish at us yesterday when we tried to interview her. Maybe that’s a habit of hers, because Loreen looks ready to dodge a few projectiles, too.
“I know it’s hard,” Loreen says. “I’m sorry. But if you could walk me through it . . .”
“You already know that,” someone says in the next classroom up. “You were at the funeral.”
I straighten. Adrienne’s voice.
I hear Deputy Jay next, tight and strained. “If you don’t mind—for the record . . .”
Adrienne’s back is to me when I peer in. All I see is her auburn hair and her peach uniform. She adjusts the set of her shoulders as she speaks again. And for a second, the floor shifts to grass, dotted with gravestones.
I don’t think they can see it—they don’t react—but just like at the Mockingbird’s, the Flood’s focus has widened, taking in the torrent of memories around us. Maybe it’s all these interviews, stories of things and people lost. Or maybe it’s just another sign of how close the Flood is to Lotus Valley now.
“I don’t know, Deputy,” she says. “Have I suffered a notable loss? I think about it every day, every time I’m in that kitchen. Sometimes it’s more than I can bear. Sometimes it’s kind of comforting, like she’s there, guiding my hand. But most times it’s just like wallpaper. Just all around me, the rest of my life. Is that notable enough for you?”
I don’t hear Jay’s answer—harsh, terrified sobs from up the hall tear my attention away. I feel the cool, ancient air before I hear the voice. Maurice’s. And yet definitely not Maurice.
“I understand this is difficult for you, dear,” the Mockingbird soothes. “But if you don’t use your words, we’re not going to get anywhere.”
“We might need to find the Mockingbird another job.” There’s a dark chuckle behind me, and I turn to find Cassie, listening, too. “People get kind of . . . flustered . . . with her.”
I smile weakly. “To be fair, the others didn’t seem much happier.”
“They don’t like being asked to relive it,” Cassie says softly. “Guess I understand that.”
I glance back to Adrienne and Jay’s classroom. “I don’t know, Cassie.”
“About what?” she says.
“Adrienne.” I watch her back, watch the rigid line of her shoulders. “When Theresa told me what it was like for her, I just felt . . . I don’t know. Like it made sense? But look at her. That isn’t someone who thinks her pain is going to end soon.”
Cassie steps back, taking it in—not just Adrienne, but the whole line of classrooms. I think she gets what I mean. The only thing on display here is grief, scabbed-over and ripped-open. It’s no wonder I can feel the Flood taking it all in.
I wonder what we are looking for. Desperation? Relief? Anticipation?
We venture a little farther down the hall. Christie’s in the next classroom—she’s speaking quietly, her interviewee out of our sight. Cassie’s gaze unfocuses as she watches her.
“She told you about my parents,” she says. It’s not quite a question.
“She says they didn’t say much,” I say.
“Oh, I’m sure they said plenty,” Cassie says. “Just not what she wanted to know.”
Christie extends a hand to the woman opposite her, who instead nods curtly as she collects her purse. And as I watch her go, my mind begins to churn.
“Ms. Jones said they lost a child, before you,” I say.
“It wasn’t them,” Cassie says.
“I know that, I was—” Thinking out loud. I stop, and I put my thoughts in order before I try again. Though by the time I do, I’m not sure I want to.
“You told me yesterday,” I say slowly, “that they had a good reason to want the Flood here, but that they had a better reason not to.”
Cassie looks up at me. It’s the look she gave me three days ago, when she realized, for the first time, who I was. “I said that,” she says, carefully.
“So,” I say. “What was that reason, exactly?”
But if she was going to answer me, she doesn’t get the chance. Theresa Gibson strolls into the room in a tank top and jeans, her arms swinging freely at her sides. It’s different, somehow, from how she carried herself yesterday. She looks calm, almost balloon-light in her steps.
And the traces of memories all around us abruptly vanish.
“Chris,” Theresa says.
“Theresa!” Christie’s smile is warm, familiar. “Go ahead and sit down. This should only take a few minutes.”
“Something wrong?” Cassie says, seeing the look on my face, maybe.
“I’m . . . not sure,” I say slowly. I’ve been able to feel the Flood stirring since we got here, taking in al
l the grief and pain, but they’re completely still now. Theresa laughs as she pulls out the chair with her foot, and I wait to see her memories flicker into view. Nothing happens. It’s almost like—whatever the Flood is getting from everyone else in this school, they’re not getting it here.
I don’t see that grief and pain in Theresa, either. Her shoulders are relaxed. Her smile is easy. She doesn’t look like someone who knows she’s about to be asked about the worst day of her life.
And I think of yesterday, in the garage. When she’d told me about Adrienne. When she caught me looking at her pictures.
“You may have been invited in,” I whisper.
“Rose?” Cassie asks.
I grip her arm to quiet her. “Yesterday, in the garage, that’s what she said to me. ‘You may have been invited in.’ But she shouldn’t have known about the broadcast.”
Cassie’s eyes widen. I wonder if she’s cataloguing it, too: the comment about Adrienne, the list of pawn shop customers. From the very start, all from Theresa.
“Cassie,” I say. “I think—”
“You don’t think,” someone else says. “You know.”
We whip around. And behind us, breathing hard, her perfect clothes and perfect hair in disarray, is Mayor Maggie Williams.
We lock eyes for a long, long time. And Cassie may be the prophet, but I get there first.
“You finally looked.” I smile slowly. “Didn’t you?”
Maggie goes white, her jaw visibly working. But she nods.
Adrenaline surges down to my toes. “Then go,” I say.
For a second, I think she’ll remind me who’s in charge here. But she settles her shoulders, and she does what I ask.
“Knock, knock,” she trills, sailing past us and into the classroom. “Hope you don’t mind if I sit in, Chris.”
“I”—Christie opens her mouth, closes it—“wasn’t expecting you, Maggie.”
“Yes . . .” Theresa’s still got that easy smile. But I can see it calcifying. “Why don’t you sit down, Madam Mayor? You look out of breath.”
And then, ever so slightly, her head shifts to the hall. “And who’s out there?” she calls, smooth and cool as a river rock. “Cassandra? Or is it you, Ms. Nobody?”
“Something the matter?” Christie says. Her voice doesn’t change. Her posture does.
“You’re busy women, both of you.” Though I know she can’t see me, she never looks away. “We’ve all got important things to do today. Let’s not waste time.”
Christie barely flinches. But I see the shift behind her eyes. She’s guessed. She knows.
Maggie perches on the edge of her chair, and for once, I’m grateful for her unflappable PTA grin. “Okay, then,” she says. “Let’s start with what you mean?”
“I think you know what I mean. But if you need me to say it, then yes. I’m the person I imagine you’ve been looking for.
“So.” Theresa leans back in her chair. “Let’s get this over with.”
Twenty-Six
THE DUE TO THE DEAD
“YOU LOOK SURPRISED,” Theresa says.
Christie’s palms lie flat on her thighs, as if she’s considering whether to move or stay still. “A little,” she says evenly. “Seems like a lot of effort to hide what you were doing, just to tell me so easily now.”
“I didn’t expect our Mags here to pick up soothsaying again.” Theresa shrugs. “Clearly I gotta work on my prophesying skills, right? Anyways, I figure I’ve bought enough time.”
“Time to what?” Maggie says.
Theresa gazes across the table. Still smiling. But underneath that, implacably calm. “If you figured me out too quickly, you might’ve tried something else. Maybe you would’ve even figured out how to stop this. If I could keep you distracted—with the list, with Adrienne—I could keep you from looking for other solutions.”
There’s a beat of silence. I can feel Cassie, shifting closer. “Anyway,” Theresa says. “I’ve taken enough of your time. You’ve got an evacuation to run.”
“Don’t you worry about the evacuation,” Christie says.
“And are you worried, Maggie?” Theresa says.
I can see her trying not to bristle. “We have our differences of opinion,” Maggie says. “But when it comes to the safety of this town, I trust Christie implicitly. And if she trusts her—Rudy to assist, then I defer to her judgment.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Theresa says with a shrug. “Okay, then. I’ve got plans tonight. Few things to prepare and all that. So can we make this quick?”
“And who was it you went through all this trouble for?” says Christie.
“Ah, yeah. You didn’t know him, did you?” She’s bordering on chipper. She could be talking about any new year’s plans. “My father would have passed when you were about this high. It’s too bad. He would have liked you. I really do think you should evacuate, Chris.”
“The evacuation”—I hear the edge in her voice for the first time—“is taken care of.”
“Oh,” Theresa says. Something in her expression shifts. “Were you hoping I could tell you how to stop it?”
“Theresa,” Christie says. “I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt here. I’m assuming you would never bring this to our doorstep if you knew what it was capable of.”
“Don’t condescend to me, sweetheart.” She smiles thinly. “I’m not an idiot. Of course I know.”
Cassie has started gripping my arm right back. Hard enough that I might just be holding her up.
Christie leans back in her chair. “Let’s start with how you know, then.”
“It was just that I started to wonder,” Theresa says. “About this place. About you in particular, Chris—about how things changed after you came back to town. I used to like poking around the archives, just to read about all the weird shit that’s passed through here since before we were alive. You know me. Business gets slow, I get bored. But then you come back. You become sheriff after the Harper incident. And then not long after, we get Cassandra’s prophecy. Suddenly, certain pages of the archive files are always checked out. By our sheriff herself. I didn’t guess why at the time. Just thought it was strange.
“But then about two months ago, talking to your wife, she said something that bugged me.” Theresa leans back in her chair. “She was laughing about how upset her parents were that you’d said no to their holiday invitation again. Said that it wasn’t your fault you were allergic to the cats.” She snorts. “Funny. I remember a little Christie Jones who played with the feral cats in the high school parking lot. Don’t worry, though. I didn’t tell her that.”
“And what was that to you, exactly?” The question drops the temperature a few degrees.
“Nothing,” Theresa says. “I just started to think that you’ve disappeared, like clockwork, to spend the holidays doing ‘charity work.’ Right after Cassandra started living with you.”
Cassie’s gone rigid. Her grip has started to hurt.
“And I thought, if Cassandra’s involved, there’s only one thing it could be about. But her prophecy never said when this flood was meant to come. So why the same time, every year? And I guess it was then I started to connect the dots. Started wondering about that archive, what was in those missing pages.”
Theresa grins. “Believe it or not, I had no idea what I was in for when I ran into Jay at Paco’s. I just wanted to know what else you were hiding.”
Cassie starts to shiver. “What’s wrong?” I whisper, as if they can hear us as well as we can hear them.
“She knows exactly what she did.” Her voice is a tight whisper. “Doesn’t she?”
“So you went to the Mockingbird,” Maggie says. “Knowing they were friends.”
“Jeez.” Theresa laughs. “I’m not a mastermind, Maggie. How could I know they knew each other? All I was thinking was I’v
e gotten this far. Fish or cut bait. And what better bait than someone who can sound like anyone? It’s not like I started anything that wouldn’t have happened anyway.”
“It might not have happened at all without you,” Christie says.
Theresa smiles blandly. “Good thing I was proactive, then.”
I look to the classroom, then back to Cassie. Her lips are starting to go white. “Cassie,” I hiss. “Are you okay?”
She jerks her head, vaguely, like she changed her mind halfway between a nod and a shake.
Christie’s stare is hard, watching Theresa. And at length, Theresa looks up again. “You know, Chris,” she says. Her smile thins, just a little. “I’ve always wanted to ask you why you tried so hard to hide this. Bet Maggie here would love to know, too, right, Maggie?”
“No,” Maggie says tightly. “I would say I’m starting to understand.”
“Don’t you two get it? This is a good thing,” Theresa says. “Think about all the people in this town with someone they’d like to see again. Your friends? Your staff? Your partners? If you’d given us a choice—asked us which we’d rather have—I think I wouldn’t be the only one willing to start over. You can rebuild a town. How often can you bring back the past?”
“You know I couldn’t do that,” Christie says.
“We don’t know that they’re going to hurt us,” Theresa says. “Even Cassie couldn’t tell you exactly what happens. How do we know this isn’t a gift? Creating a new Lotus Valley with all the things we’ve lost?”
Cassie’s fingers lock tighter into my arm, and I can see the bone of her knuckles. “Cassie,” I say again, more firmly.
“Nothing is wrong,” she says,
“Yeah,” I say, “it looks like it.”
“Who are you to talk?” she snaps. “You haven’t explained a thing since you got here.”
“Yeah.” The word comes out in an exhale. “I haven’t. But you told me yesterday that even if I didn’t tell everyone, I should tell someone.”
“I already did,” she says. The anger is melting back, leaving something pale and unsteady. “It didn’t work out, remember?”
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